


Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene

by stayfr0sty



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Clubbing, F/F, Femslash, Gay, Genderbend, Genderswap, Girls Kissing, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, Lesbians, No Heteros Allowed Babes!!!, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Wow, YEEEEEHAW!!, and it's genderbend too!!, but here we are, i honestly never thought i would write smut, if you're still reading... wow, im done, ok, read my fic Vegas Lights pls, read this fic too pls, they're lesbians, uhhh, what do I even tag this, wlw, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 07:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayfr0sty/pseuds/stayfr0sty
Summary: Bren's familiar, crooked grin shines underneath the glowing florescent lights, and Dal can feel her smile. "I mean, what are best friends for?""Yeah," Delilah agrees in a raspy, low voice. "Best friends."And then she decides that she can't do this anymore.-In which Delilah falls in love with her best friend, and Bren learns how to break someone's nose.





	Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene

_La Petite Mort (French pronunciation: [la pətit mɔʁ], the small death) is an expression which means "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and in modern usage, refers specifically to "the sensation of post-orgasm as likened to death"._

* * *

 "I swear," B says, sweet breath poisoning the evening air, "He'll be the death of me."

Delilah watches as her best friend pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, sharp red nails clawing like talons as she hunts for her lighter. She doesn't watch the way her scarlet lips curve and part as she speaks. No, and she doesn't watch the way her eyelashes, so long and dark and every bit picture-perfect, blink so slowly, so languidly, like a cat. Like a panther. Like she's a predator.

"It's not that I care, Dal," Brenda tells her quickly, every word escaping her mouth like smoke, disappearing in an instant, "I don't. Of course I don't."

"Judging from the way you keep checking your phone," Dal murmurs with the quietest of sighs, "You care."

B doesn't seem to hear her. She's too busy taking a drag, too busy exhaling and practically purring with delight as she watches the smoke curl up and fade away. Her eyes are alight, her hunger never satiated. She's constantly craving more. She wants chaos, she wants sex, she wants to raise hell.

And Delilah? Delilah just wants to go home. But it's 10pm, far too early for the night to end just yet. She shifts her weight back and forth, balancing on one of her heels, and then the other.

"I fucking hate men," says B, and Dal knows she's lying. She's said it a million times. Oh, she _hates_ men, she's _never_ dating one again.. And then, three days later, Dal sees her with a boy's tongue down her throat and his hands in her pants. Violating her in a way that she shouldn't allow.

"Sure you do," Delilah sighs. "That's why we're here, right?"

She pretends that she isn't watching Bren's long, delicate fingers drop the cigarette and snuff it out with her heel. She pretends that she's not stealing glances at her legs, at her too-perfect calves and her thighs peeking out from her miniskirt. And, of course, she's not admiring her hips, and the way that her tight clothes hug her figure, illuminating every fucking detail. Obviously, she doesn't watch as Brenda pulls out her blood-red lipstick and starts to apply it to her red, red lips.

The things Dal would do to her lips.

Or, rather, what she wants those lips to do to her.

She closes her eyes, and she tells herself she's going to hell.

"Yes." B agrees, "That's exactly why we're here. To forget about guys."

When Dal opens her eyes, Brenda's staring at her with her uncannily sharp gaze. With her predator eyes, with the silent agreement that she would tear Delilah limb to limb given the opportunity. Oh, Delilah wouldn't mind death if it was by her hands.

"You've never hooked up with someone, have you?" she asks, tracing Dal's jawline with her sharp nail. She doesn't remember how to breathe for a second, but she collects herself, like she always does.

By someone, she means a man. She means, have you been fucked? She means, have you sucked dick?

Delilah finds the idea laughable. Of course, it's not like she's been with a woman, either. No, not Delilah, not the former Mormon prude with the formless clothing and the God-given ability to disappear into the background. In high school, she was a laughingstock. A mockery. Was she a boy or a girl, people asked, what did she have underneath those sweaters and baggy pants? Was she desperate? Was she secretly a slut, hidden under layers of gray clothing and self-hatred?

Not even Bren could fix her back then.

She shakes her head. "Of course not. You know that." She laughs, even if she doesn't feel like laughing.

But oh, did B try to fix her. She waltzed into Dal's life during junior year, bringing with her heaps of baggage and red lipstick. She was new, moved in from out of state, and she said she liked Delilah's energy. Which was, in all respects, bullshit. But it was an excuse to have someone to sit next to at lunch.

"We can change that," promises B, eyes glittering. "Tonight."

She wasn't sure if Bren wanted to fix her, or if she was just that desperate for friends. Whatever the case, she changed her life. She bought her clothes. She taught her how to apply mascara, how to dress like a whore, how to radiate confidence even if she didn't feel it. How to smile even if her heart felt like it was falling apart.

"You go ahead," murmurs Delilah, even if she hates the idea of Bren fucking some guy, some man, someone with too-rough hands who's not gentle enough with her, "Go get lucky." She flashes a grin that she doesn't quite mean.

In high school, Bren pushed her out of her comfort zone. And Dal returned the favor. She showed her good bands. She made her listen to old albums. She begged her to pick up the guitar, because Dal played bass, and it was only natural that they should start a band, because B knew people who could play and Dal was sure they could make it. Besides, after a few months, they were symbiotic. They were one. They were tied together, whether they liked it or not. A string, connecting their bones, pulling them together, weaving a pattern of love and hatred and jealousy and something in between. Why shouldn't they start a band? Why shouldn't they create something bigger than themselves?

The line for the nightclub shifts forward, and Dal fumbles in her purse for her ID.

Of course, the band didn't last. Lyrics were scrapped. Arguments were had. People were kicked out. And now, in their second year of college, it's just Bren and Dal again. Two girls against the world.

B shoves her forward, and they enter the club.

It's a nightmare inside, one fueled by hormones and sweat and the usual human need for intimacy, for closeness. But it's intimacy that's for sale, of course. The girls dancing on the poles, they're for sale. The drinks at the bar, meant to enhance and increase chances of sex, they're nothing more than monetized sexual desire. Pay your way into heaven, or hell, maybe.

But, it's a nightmare that Delilah enjoys. Years of friendship with B have taught her that there's nothing she can't accomplish. There's nobody she can't convince. There's no obstacle that's insurmountable. If Dal smiles the right smile and pushes her chest out and whispers just the right words, the world will grant her anything. Even if Bren's better at it, even if guys think she's the better prize, Dal's capable.

Even if Bren's the better one. Even if she calls the shots, even if Dal's sick of it, even if Dal wants to take matters into her own hands for once in her goddamn life.

She loses B in the crowd, but she finds her again at the bar. She's leaning over the counter, eyes batting and her index finger toying with her lips. She's laughing at something the bartender says, and even if this has happened before, it doesn't stop Dal from feeling some sort of jealousy. Some sort of ache, deep in her heart. She wishes B would smile at her like that.

She taps her on the shoulder, and B turns, all radiant grin and happy eyes when she sees her.

"Hello, babe," she purrs, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as she turns back to the bartender. "I was just telling dear Joshie here how much I love this club."

Delilah tunes out whatever oil-laced mockery Bren's spilling from her lips, whatever poison she's cooing to him in exchange for free drinks. She doesn't want to hear her flirt with someone. Not even if it's fake, not even if B's arm is around her and she can smell the faint scent of her perfume.. She can't listen to this, she can't just let herself be tortured.

It's always the same. Whenever Bren finds a new guy, she feels sick. She can't listen to her talk about him without wanting to scream. She can't watch them together, she can't watch her sit on his lap and smile up at him like he's her whole galaxy. She can't bear to be around him. 

Finally, finally, B straightens up. She uncurls her arm from around Dal, she hands her a drink, and she orders, "Drink it."

And because Delilah would do anything for her, because she can't do anything except let her walk all over her like she's a doormat, because Bren's the main character and she's just a sideshow, a freak act, she takes the drink and swallows it in one gulp. It burns going down. But the smile on Bren's face is worth it. If Dal performs, if she makes her happy, maybe it'll quell any feelings she may or may not have. Maybe acting the part is enough to ace the role. Maybe she'll finally figure out the secret to Bren's unceasing happiness.

"We're gonna get you laid tonight, babe!" Bren yells, and Delilah wants to puke.

She knows that B wants to lose herself. She knows B just wants fun. But sometimes, she likes to imagine. She likes to imagine that B's eyes linger on hers for a second too long, that her hand brushing against hers isn't accidental, that she's genuinely craving intimacy. She likes to imagine that Bren's hers, that they belong to each other in a more-than-best-friends way.

Everyone thought there was something between them, anyway. Senior year of high school, half their class thought they'd fucked. They saw it in the way they held hands, in the way that they were always just a little too close, in the way that Bren's hand slid down to rest on her thigh and the way that their lives were so tangled together.

They hadn't fucked. Bren was straight.

But there were those moments, of course. There was the time Dal and B were lying in her bed, and she felt B's hand rest on top of hers, and she swore she heard her breathe out "I love you". There was the time at that school dance, when Bren pulled her hips close and breathed down her neck. There was the time they almost kissed, their lips so close and their heartbeats in sync, but B pulled away, laughing it off.

There were those moments, but Bren was straight.

There was a time when Dal believed she was straight, too. But she couldn't love boys. Not when girls looked like that. Not when she looked at those strippers, their bodies shining with glitter and sweat. Their chests adorned with the daintiest lingerie, flowers and lace hiding nothing. Their hips. Their curves. She couldn't love boys, not when she watched those girls dance on stage, delicate fingers stroking across glowing skin and trailing down to the edge of their underwear.

She couldn't love boys, when her best friend was smiling like that, like no drug could give her a better buzz. When Bren was tugging on her hand, demanding they go to the dance floor, and oh, God, she'd never looked so radiant before. She couldn't love boys, when she tossed down shot after shot just at the request of B, because she can't deny those eyes. She couldn't love boys, not when she was in love with her best friend.

Drink after drink, Delilah loses her mind. Drink after drink, she dances with Bren, ignoring the bitter stab of jealously when a man asks B to dance. Drink after drink, she lets the distance between them shrink, and the heat of _want_ to take over.

She's never been good with alcohol, though. She's dizzy, so dizzy she might faint. But she keeps dancing, she keeps hoping every time Bren brushes against her that she'll move even closer, that they'll close the distance between each other entirely.

And then she feels a hand on her shoulder.

She spins around, drunkenly, too slowly. She's smiling, still, and she's not hit with the reality of the situation until she feels his hand sliding down her skirt.

Delilah jerks away, jerks away from the man who's holding her too tightly and who's looming over her and who's too strong for her to struggle away from. He's talking, and she can't hear a word of what he's saying, and she can't breathe, and she's going to faint, oh, God. The world is spinning.

And then, and then, and then. The man recoils, like he's been hit in the face. 

And, in fact, he has.

B stands there with wide eyes and blood on her fist, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. She's frozen, and so is Delilah, until she stumbles back and grabs B by the arm.

"We have to go," she pants, "We have to go."

Bren's grinning. It's not a pretty grin. "The fun's just getting started, babe," she says, unhinged, drunkenly, incomprehensibly.

So Delilah does what anyone else would do. She drags B away, away from the man with clenched fists and a bleeding nose, and she takes her to the bathroom, where maybe she can wipe off her bloody hand and maybe they can hide out before he calls security on them.

"Bren," she breathes out, "Bren, you didn't have to do that."

B looks up from the sink, then, as she wipes her hands on her dress, she tells her, "No. I did." in a voice so matter-of-fact and frank that Delilah can't argue. Without really realizing it, Dal reaches out. She touches her cheek - cupping it in her hand, almost. A familiar gesture. An intimate gesture.

"Thank you," she whispers, and her voice is shaky, sort of. Quiet, definitely. She's still terrified. But she's safe.

Bren's familiar, crooked grin shines underneath the glowing florescent lights, and Dal can feel her smile. "I mean, what are best friends for?"

"Yeah," Delilah agrees in a raspy, low voice. "Best friends."

And then she decides that she can't do this anymore. She can't look her in the eyes and pretend that this is what she wants. She can't agree to being best friends. She can't settle. For once in her life, Delilah Weekes isn't going to take second-best.

She slides her hand down, down to her waist, and then she pulls her closer, flush against her body, and she can feel her heartbeat. Unsteady. Fast. Terrified.

"Best friends," Delilah says, and then she kisses B.

She's kissed girls before, she's practiced, and she's imagined this moment before, but it's so much different than what she'd pictured. Bren is so..warm. She's hot, needy, pressing against her mouth and kissing her like she's desperate for more. It's everything Dal's ever wanted. It's everything she's ever needed. She's so close, she's so warm and she's so, so soft. Her skin sets Dal ablaze. Without caring, without letting B do whatever she wants, she pushes. She pushes forward, she slams her against the door, and with her right hand, she locks it.

"I have waited," B pants into the kiss, " _years_ for this."

Dal's only reply is a muffled whimper. Her hands grab at B's hips, at her waist, everywhere she can touch. It's so overwhelming. It's like drowning, it's like suffocating but craving more, but needing her touch. Dal needs her. Oh, God, she needs her. She's never felt something like this before, she's never felt this fire. She doesn't think it's the alcohol that's burning her alive. It's Bren's touch. It's her skin.

Carefully, cautiously, so slowly that it's torturous, she slides her hand up, up, up to her chest. She wants to _touch_. She wants her. She wants to know what it is like to explore every inch of B, to know her better than she knows herself. And B lets her, B lets her slip her hand into the top of her dress, and with a shuddering breath and a sigh, she pushes closer to Dal. It's not even a matter of question when Dal slots her thigh between Bren's legs, when B grinds down on her and whines so, so softly, when Dal's other hand finds its way into her hair and she pulls, she yanks at her hair and B groans all low in the back of her throat.

Bren is so soft. She's so perfect, she's so warm, she's everything Dal could want. She's never touched a girl like this. She hadn't known she was so.. so delicate. So sensitive. Dal's thumb slides underneath her bra, she drags it over B's skin light as a feather, and she notices how she shivers. Her hand slides up to Bren's neck, and she tightens her grip. Bren lets her, Bren is pliant under her touch, Bren is trembling and wanting and needing and she's so, so warm. She's an angel, she's fallen, she's missing her wings but she's still so perfect and angelic and _glowing_ -

"Please," begs Bren, and Dal thinks she's never heard anything sweeter.

"Please, what?" Dal whispers, and she pulls away, just a bit, just enough to look at her. Bren's eyes are huge. Her lipstick is smeared. This is the most vulnerable Dal's ever seen her.

"Please touch me." B's desperate. She's panting, scarlet lips parted. She's a mess.

"Okay," Delilah murmurs, "Okay." She's never done this, never done anything close to this. She's never been intimate. She's never trusted someone enough for that. Nor has she ever wanted to trust someone enough for that. But Bren- she trusts Bren.

However.

"I'm not- I don't," she tries to explain, stammering, stuttering, tripping on her own words, "I'm not, you- I'm not.. experienced." Her cheeks are red, almost the same shade as Bren's lips.

"I don't care," Bren whispers. "I don't care. Please."

So Dal nods, and then she kisses her again, harder this time. More desperate. More wanting. She's terrified. But as she pushes the hem of her dress aside and moves her hand up her thigh, she finds she doesn't need to worry. Bren's trembling at her very touch, she's pushing her hips up and pulling her closer at the mere hint of physical contact, she's whining when Dal's skin brushes against her and she's whimpering louder when Dal realizes what she needs to do.

And B's shaking. She's shaking, she's breathing heavily, her eyes are closed and she's long abandoned any attempt at kissing Dal back.

And Dal thinks she's absolutely beautiful.

Bren's sharp, blood-red nails dig into Delilah's back, no doubt leaving marks. She's whining again, she's panting and she's begging Dal to, " _Keep doing that, please, please_ -" and there's surely a line outside the bathroom and Dal knows they'll be facing a mob when they leave. But for now she's lost in the moment, she's lost in the sounds B's making, she's lost in the way it feels to make a girl beg for more.

She is lost. She is lost, and she doesn't ever want to be found.

And after Bren chokes out Dal's name and buries her face in her shoulder and collapses onto her, after Bren dies a thousand small deaths and finds herself tightly in Dal's grip, safe, protected, after they breathe in sync for what feels like hours, Dal tells her she loves her.

She tells her she loves her again.

And again.

She realizes Bren's crying.

And then she realizes she's crying, too.

"I love you too," breathes Bren, "I love you. I love you."

Dal holds her tight and says, "I know."

 


End file.
